But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,

His dark eye shone through beams of truth: Allan had early learn'd control,

And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave,-the Saxon spear

Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar's bosom scoru'd to fear,
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel.

While Allan's soul belied his form,
Unworthy with such charms to dwell;
Keen as the lightning of the storm,

On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon's distant tower
Arriv'd a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came.

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,
And Angus on his Oscar smiled:
It soothed the father's feudal pride
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!
Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
And still the choral peal prolong.

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes
Assembled wave in Alva's hall!
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
Attending on their chieftain's call.

It is not war their aid demands

The pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar's nuptials throng the band,
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.
But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late:
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

Oh, no!' the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind?

Would aught to her impede his way?

Oh! search, ye Chiefs! oh! search around! Allan, with these, through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son, is found

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply!'

All is confusion-through the vale
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings;
It rises on the murmuring gale
Till Night expands her dusky wings.

It breaks the stillness of the Night,
But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through Morning's misty light,
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief,
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave;

Then hope is lost in boundless grief,

His locks in grey torn ringlets wave.

'Oscar! my son !-thou God of heaven!
Restore the prop of sinking age;
Or, if that hope no more is given,
Yield his assassin to my rage.

'Yes, on some desert rocky shore

My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; Then grant thou, God! I ask no more, With him his frantic sire may die.

Yet he may live,-away, despair!

Be calm, my soul! he yet may live ;
To arraign my fate, my voice forbear;
O God! my impious prayer forgive.

What if he live for me no more?
I sink forgotten in the dust;
The hope of Alva's age is o'er :
Alas! can pangs like these be just ?”

Thus did the hapless parent mourn,

Till time, who soothes severest woe, Had bade serenity return,

And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For still some latent hope surviv'd

That Oscar might once more appear: His hope now droop'd, and now reviv'd, Till time had told a tedious year. Days roll'd along, the orb of light

Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,
And sorrow left a fainter trace:-

For youthful Allan still remain'd,
And now his father's only joy :
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,

And Allan's face was wondrous fair;

If Oscar lived, some other maid

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.

And Angus said, if one year more

In fruitless hope was pass'd away,

His fondest scruples should be o'er,
And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll'd the moons, but bless'd, at last,
Arrived the dearly destined morn;

The year of anxious trembling past, What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth ?
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
But light and trackless is his tread.

'Tis uoou of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd ;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger Chief arose,

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. T

Thrice has the Earth revolved her course
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;
And Allan is my last resource

Since martial Oscar's death or flight.'

'Tis well,' replied the stranger, stern,
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye:
Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn;
Perhaps the hero did not die.

'Perchance, if those whom most he loved.
Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance the Chief has only roved-
For him thy Beltane* yet may burn.

Fill high the bowl, the table round—
We will not claim the pledge by stealth
With wine let every cup be crown'd-
Pledge me departed Oscar's health.'
With all my soul,' old Angus said,

And filled his goblet to the brim—
"Here's to my boy! alive or dead,

I ne'er shall find a son like him.'
'Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand.'
The crimson glow of Allan's face

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chase
Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,

And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye,
On his with deadly fury plac'd.
'And is it thus a brother hails

A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails,

What might we not expect from fear?'

;

• Beltane-Tree, a Highland festival on the 1st of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion.